


Assert

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Hand Jobs, Jealousy, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Size Difference, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-12-29 21:30:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18302303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Murasakibara stays quiet for the whole of the walk home after practice. Himuro doesn’t make much note of this, in the moment." Himuro is distracted after his reunion with Kagami, and Murasakibara takes more action than he usually cares for.





	Assert

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AdharaSnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdharaSnow/gifts).



Murasakibara stays quiet for the whole of the walk home after practice.

Himuro doesn’t make much note of this, in the moment. He had returned after practice to find an array of empty foil wrappers instead of the stockpile of treats he left Murasakibara with, so they take a slight detour on the way back to preempt Murasakibara’s demand for Himuro to go out and fetch him more snacks later that evening, and Himuro buys several Murasakibara-sized handfuls of snacks without really noticing the lack of conversation from the looming form next to him.

He just has other things on his mind. He showered and changed after practice, of course, but the exertion of training has left his skin glowing with lingering heat that dampens his t-shirt with sweat even after he’s rinsed himself clean and dried as thoroughly as he can. That’s an ordinary discomfort, a regular irritation to cope with on the way back from practice, but that’s not what is holding Himuro’s thoughts in a tight circle. It’s something else -- or, rather, some _one_ else -- that has achieved that, and Himuro spends the meandering stroll they take along the city streets with the sound of crinkling wrappers as background for the flickering nostalgia of his wandering thoughts.

He’s still thinking about Kagami when they arrive at the door of Murasakibara’s home. Himuro feels his inner calm ruffled, as if the other’s reappearance in his life has sent ripples through a surface he has kept deliberately glass-smooth for years, and his own discomfort is proving enough to chase reflections across his thoughts with every breath he takes. Himuro draws the door open for them both, and takes the lead into the familiar shadows of the space while he leaves the entrance open for Murasakibara to duck through and follow him at his own ever-languid pace. Himuro braces a hand against the wall alongside him and ducks his head as he toes his shoes off at the edge of the entryway, but he’s not really paying any more attention to his feet than he is to the sound of Murasakibara’s footsteps thudding into the entryway behind him. It’s just habit, as easy to act on as it is to brush away from his memory, until Himuro is so absent from the present moment that it is a shock to have Murasakibara’s voice break through his reverie.

“Who is he?”

Himuro jumps, startled in spite of himself by the sound of the other’s voice. Murasakibara almost never speaks unless asked a direct question, and even then only when he thinks the speaker is unlikely to let him get by with a mumble or a grunt of answer; with Himuro he hardly ever bothers at all, content enough in his own presence that he just brushes past anything he doesn’t care to answer, which is to say anything not directly related to food, or snack preferences, or sometimes sleep. Even now he’s not watching Himuro, when the other turns to look back over his shoulder; he’s just standing inside the still-open door of the house, his head ducked forward so his hair swings in front of his face as he looks down at the chocolate bar he’s unwrapping.

“You shouldn’t have another of those,” Himuro says, speaking on reflex rather than on any expectation of Murasakibara actually listening to him. “You’ll ruin your appetite for dinner.” Murasakibara peels the wrapper halfway down the bar and brings it to his mouth to take a bite that halves the candy at once and Himuro lets the point go. “Who is who?”

“That guy.” Murasakibara rolls the wrapper down farther along the candy bar before gesturing vaguely in the space between them with the bitten-off end of it. “You know who I mean.”

Himuro huffs himself into a smile, amused in spite of the tension that has been building across his shoulders ever since he stepped off the basketball court and away from the distraction of effort offered by practice. “I don’t,” he says, his tone dipping towards the faintest indication of patronizing teasing as he looks up at Murasakibara’s shadowed face. “Why would I have asked if I knew, Atsushi?”

Murasakibara heaves a sigh as if Himuro is asking some immense task from him and tosses his hair back from his face. The motion straightens his posture and brings him standing at full height for a moment; with the glow of sunlight from the open door blocked by his shoulders Himuro is caught entirely in the other’s shadow for a breath. Murasakibara brings the half-unwrapped chocolate to his mouth and catches the end of it between his teeth so he can strip it free of the rest of the wrapper and crumple the foil in his grip. Himuro holds his hand out without waiting to be asked and Murasakibara reaches to drop the balled-up wrapper into the other’s palm so Himuro can tuck it into the pocket of his jeans to throw away properly when he has a chance later.

“That guy,” Murasakibara says again. “The one you knew from America.”

Himuro ducks his head to watch the movement of his hand as he pushes the wrapper into his pocket with far more care than the action possibly requires. “Oh,” he says, his voice leaping higher in his throat to fall into the seeming of innocence. “You mean Taiga?”

Murasakibara doesn’t look away at Himuro’s display of disinterest. “You’re friends.”

Himuro coughs a laugh and shoves the wrapper into his pocket with more force than he intended. “No,” he says, and lifts his chin to look up from under the dark of his hair at Murasakibara looming over him. “We _were_ friends. We’re rivals, now.” Himuro’s attention slides over Murasakibara’s shoulder, drifting away from the weight of the other’s gaze to linger at the brilliance of the sunlight coming through the open doorway.

“You care about him.”

Himuro shakes his head sharply, intending to push aside the meaning of Murasakibara’s words by force since he isn’t sure he can talk himself out of them by logic. His fingers tense at his sides, his hands shaping out the curl of fists without his intention. “I care about beating him,” he says. “We used to play basketball together.” He tosses his head to swing his hair away from his face and lifts his chin towards the light from the doorway. “I want to show him how much better I’ve gotten.”

Murasakibara shakes his head. The loose curtain of his hair swings around his features to hide his expression. “That means you still care.” He takes a step forward over the distance between himself and Himuro; with the length of his stride the motion brings him nearly toe-to-toe with the other and rises his shoulders up to interrupt Himuro’s line of sight out the open door. “You did before and you do now.”

Himuro blinks up at Murasakibara. He can’t make out the details of the other’s expression from the shadows; the best he can do is pick out the weight of Murasakibara’s gaze on him and the set of Murasakibara’s mouth on something that isn’t quite as strong as a frown but certainly has some measure more strain under it than his usual passivity. “I don’t,” he says, and huffs a laugh as he turns his head aside to break the unusual eye contact. “Taiga means nothing to me anymore.”

“Anymore,” Murasakibara repeats back. “But he used to.” He tips his head to the side, as if he’s trying to get a better read on Himuro’s expression. “Were you in love with him?”

Himuro’s whole face blisters to heat all at once, with no more warning than what Murasakibara gave for his abrupt question. “ _What?_ ” he blurts, and then presses his mouth together tight on what he hopes will look more like anger than embarrassment. “ _No_. Why...do you even really care?”

“Liar,” Murasakibara says, with the unstoppable force of certainty on his voice that he gets sometimes, that makes Himuro’s knees tremble with the urge to surrender, to capitulate, to give way to that presence still so much greater than his own, that has always dominated him even with Murasakibara’s usual vague disinterest. To have it turned on him now, on this subject, is more than Himuro knows how to deny, even if he were far more certain of his claim than he is. Murasakibara leans forward, shifting as if to take another step, and when instinct rocks Himuro backwards from the inevitable collision of their bodies his heel catches at the lip of the entryway and his balance stumbles backwards to drop him off of his feet. Himuro sucks in a breath, his body tightening in anticipation of bruising pain as he hits the floor, but Murasakibara just reaches out with the same languid calm with which he intercepts passes to curl his hand into a fist at the front of Himuro’s shirt. Himuro is caught in midair, held aloft for a moment by Murasakibara’s grip, but it’s only for a breath because Murasakibara is leaning in over him, lowering Himuro to the floor as he drops his knee alongside the other’s thigh. Murasakibara drops Himuro to the floor, letting his hold go as soon as the other’s shoulders are flat at the hallway, but it’s only to lean in and flatten his palm over Himuro’s shoulder so he can tilt his body over the other.

“You care now,” Murasakibara says, and Himuro stares up at him, feeling his heart pounding as if reorienting itself around Murasakibara’s words, as if his history is being overwritten by the force of the other’s speech. “You cared then.” He leans in against the support of his hand at the floor, his shoulders flexing with all the languid strength of some enormous predator. His fingers curl against Himuro’s shirt and drag to pull it up and leave the other’s stomach bare for the shadow of Murasakibara leaning in over him. “You wanted him.”

“I wanted…” Himuro starts. Murasakibara’s palm flattens to his stomach, long fingers stretch out to almost span the width of his waist, and Himuro loses his words to a shudder of heat that arches him up against Murasakibara’s touch in spite of himself. He gasps a breath and lifts a hand to touch at Murasakibara’s wrist, to curl his fingers in against the strain of tendons working along the other’s forearm. “I wanted to play basketball with him.”

“No.” Murasakibara is still looking down at Himuro, although the shadow of his hair is hiding his expression; Himuro keeps gazing up, too caught by the other’s unusual attention on him to even tilt his head and swing his hair back to disguise the shock of his gaze. “You wanted to fuck him. To have him touch you.” Murasakibara’s hand pushes down, his thumb hooking under Himuro’s waistband as he drags the fabric wide of the other’s hips. The weight of his knuckles pressing against Himuro’s half-hard cock is incidental, coincidence more than intent, but as soon as the other’s sweatpants are off his hips Murasakibara is dropping his attention from the clothing to paw inelegantly against Himuro’s length, and Himuro’s lashes dip with an instinct too great to keep from responding to Murasakibara’s nonchalant fondling.

“I--” Himuro starts, unsure even what it is he intends to offer by answer, and Murasakibara’s fingers reach to press his balls up against the base of his cock and he arches into the friction, his hips bucking up off the floor to grind against the weight of the other’s hand. Murasakibara doesn’t even tip his head down to watch the idle play of his fingers; his gaze is fixed on Himuro’s face, his attention unmoving even as the other’s cheeks flush and lips part on the same arousal swelling his cock to press itself to the span of Murasakibara’s palm. “ _Atsushi_.”

“Did he?” Murasakibara asks. He sounds disinterested, his tone as idle as the slide of his hand palming over Himuro’s hips, but even with his heart beating hard in his chest Himuro can recognize the unusual strain under Murasakibara’s voice, the tension enough to urge his slow drawl towards something that might be almost attention, or the closest thing to it Murasakibara ever attains. His fingers flex without consideration for Himuro’s grip on his wrist, curling as if to make a fist around the heat of Himuro’s cock. “Did he ever touch you like this?” Murasakibara’s hand pushes down with force enough to part Himuro’s thighs open around his palm; a pair of fingers grind against the other’s entrance while his thumb is still pinning Himuro’s cock down against his hips. “Did you let him fuck you, Muro-chin?”

Himuro shakes his head at once. “No,” he says, and is glad for the sincerity of the words. “Taiga never did anything with me.”

“You wanted him to,” Murasakibara says, and drags his palm up over Himuro’s cock again, as casual about the movement as if he’s toying with one of the candy bars still in the pockets of his coat. “You liked him.”

“I did,” Himuro admits. His hand at Murasakibara’s wrist is trembling, his cock is aching under the rough use of the other’s palm, but most of all he thinks it’s the shadow of Murasakibara’s eyes fixed on him that is arching in his back and flexing his thighs with the desire to buck up and work himself over the edge of heat against Murasakibara’s palm. “We played basketball together. He was good. I--I liked that.”

Murasakibara makes a noise in the back of his throat, too muffled for Himuro to make out as anything other than a growl. “Not as good as me,” he says, and drags his palm up and over the head of Himuro’s cock to seize a grip around the other’s length. “He’s not as good as me, Muro-chin.”

Himuro gasps a breath. He might laugh, he thinks, if he had more space in his chest to be amused, but Murasakibara is still staring at him with as much intensity as he has ever offered Himuro, and Himuro’s heart is pounding on adrenaline, and under the weight of Murasakibara’s palm all he has to offer is the slack surrender that always leaves him drained to languid relief. He lifts his hand from where it is lying slack at his side, raising it to push against the weight of Murasakibara’s hair; Murasakibara grimaces at the contact, but he doesn’t shake Himuro off from pushing heavy locks back behind the other’s ear to let some of the illumination from the doorway spill over his face.

“No,” Himuro says, and he doesn’t try to restrain the adoration on his voice or the heat dragging heavy at his lashes as he sprawls under Murasakibara’s shadow. “He’s not as good as you, Atsushi.”

Murasakibara’s jaw flexes, muscle working under Himuro’s lingering fingers as the other lifts his head. “Yeah,” he says, and it’s the look of satisfaction on his face as he looks down at Himuro as much as the grip of his fingers slicking over Himuro’s cock that brings Himuro arching back to spasm into pleasure. His voice breaks high, his hips jerk to stall against the weight of Murasakibara’s grip holding him down, and Murasakibara tips his chin down to watch as Himuro comes over himself. Himuro’s throat works on heat, his lashes dip to shadow his vision out of his hold, and he gives up the whole spasming heat of his orgasm to Murasakibara’s grip on his cock locking him to stillness.

Murasakibara lets Himuro finish coming, keeps his hold on the other through the consecutive pulses of heat Himuro spills over his stomach in time with the incoherent groans in his throat, but he lets go as soon as Himuro’s hold on his wrist eases, pulling away from his grip on the other as quickly as Himuro goes slack on the floor beneath him. He braces his palm atop Himuro’s pushed-up shirt to wipe his fingers somewhat clean against the fabric, and then he’s rocking back and away to leave Himuro illuminated in the spill of light from the doorway. Himuro reaches to drag his pants back up over his hips, and to tug his shirt down to cover the mess he’s made at his stomach, but he’s still fumbling with the latter when a hand comes over to close against the shoulder of his shirt and pulls hard enough to drag him onto his side before he can get a hand out to brace himself against the floor and lift his heat-dizzy gaze to Murasakibara.

Murasakibara is sitting up at the edge of the entryway, turned back around so he’s facing the open door. One knee is tipped over to rest at the wall alongside him and his shoulders are pressed to the support as well; the other leg is angled wide to crowd in towards Himuro sprawled across the hallway floor next to him. The sunlight spilling through the doorway illuminates his expression clearly, now, but whatever shadowy complexities were there before have dissipated, or maybe just been overlaid with a heavy-lidded heat that Himuro recalls with far more clarity than those far-off days of basketball in America.

“Hurry up, Muro-chin,” Murasakibara says, and tugs at Himuro’s shirt with more insistence than force. “It’s my turn.”

Himuro pushes up on an elbow to sit at the lip of the entryway and attempt to collect himself back into some kind of composure. His hands are trembling when he lifts them to his hair but he still tries to finger-comb it back into place, or at least out of the tangles that speak too loudly of his recent indulgence. “I should shut the door, first.”

Murasakibara grimaces. “No,” he says, and reaches out to catch his hand around the back of Himuro’s neck. He slouches in against the wall behind him, letting the weight of his body slump to the support, and Himuro is drawn towards him, urged there by the idle grip of the fingers at the back of his neck. “I got you off like this.” Murasakibara reaches down with his free hand to drag the waistband of his pants off his hips; Himuro’s gaze drops to follow the motion, first, and then to seek out the dark-flushed length of Murasakibara’s cock swollen heavy with unsatisfied desire. “I want it now, Muro-chin.”

Himuro could protest, maybe. Murasakibara has a hand at his neck but the force is more heavy weight than deliberate grip; if he ducks free he could twist and push at the door to get it shut, probably before Murasakibara mustered the energy to growl and push himself into one of those rare bursts of speed he sometimes shows. But Murasakibara is reaching down to brace his cock out from his hips with his thumb, and his fingers are tightening at the back of Himuro’s neck, and Himuro doesn’t really care enough to protest, not when Murasakibara is showing one of his rare moments of active interest without being first coaxed into it by Himuro’s best seduction techniques. So Himuro slides off the lip to the hallway to drop to his knees at the entryway, and reaches to brace his hand high up against Murasakibara’s thigh, and when the hand at his neck pushes up to cradle the back of his head Himuro opens his mouth and lets himself be drawn down so Murasakibara can fit Himuro’s parted lips around the solid heat of his cock.

He’s not gentle. Himuro didn’t expect him to be; Murasakibara is passive at best, and the rise of his interest comes in lockstep with the same selfishness that keeps him from any exertion of effort in his day-to-day life. The heat of his arousal is enough to guide Himuro’s expectations, and he’s not surprised to find his head moved with unbreakable force to take Murasakibara’s cock all the way to the back of his tongue on the first motion. Himuro’s throat catches at the friction, closing off tight against his gag reflex as his fingers tighten against Murasakibara’s thigh, but that big hand is still at the back of his head to urge him down and all he can manage is a cough to clear his throat before he softens his jaw and eases his throat for the press of Murasakibara’s cock against it. Murasakibara pushes Himuro down over him, groaning in the back of his throat on satisfaction as he sinks himself into the other’s mouth, and as Himuro’s lips brush the other’s fingers bracing his shaft Murasakibara lifts that hand too so he’s gripping Himuro’s head between both palms. Himuro swallows convulsively as Murasakibara pulls him up, dragging air through his nose as he fumbles his free hand to brace against the floor, and then his head is coming forward again and Murasakibara is sinking into his mouth and Himuro shuts his eyes to the distraction of vision and lets himself go pliant to Murasakibara’s use.

Murasakibara is efficient with him. Himuro can feel the other’s self-confidence in the grip of the fingers against his head, in the flex of movement against the arms holding him steady, in the comfortable relaxation of the muscles in the thigh under Himuro’s grasping fingers. Murasakibara is seeking his own pleasure with absolute certainty, working Himuro’s mouth over him as easily as he might stroke his hold up and across his length, until all that is really left for Himuro to do is to draw air into his lungs whenever the thrust of Murasakibara’s cock against his throat will spare him the space to do so. His lips are sliding against the wet of his mouth on Murasakibara’s skin, his tongue is filled with the heavy heat of Murasakibara’s body urging against him, and his heart is pounding doubletime in his chest, rattling on adrenaline as he’s moved by Murasakibara’s grip. He can’t move, can’t speak, can’t resist and doesn’t think to try; he’s being carried on Murasakibara’s rhythm, drawn forward and down by the other’s grip, and Murasakibara is driving deeper into his mouth with each movement, pushing Himuro farther onto his cock with each stroke. Himuro can hear the weight of the other’s breathing, just now starting to deepen into the heat of effort, and then Murasakibara’s fingers tighten at Himuro’s head, his hips buck up to thrust himself all the way back into the other’s mouth, and his cock pulses against Himuro’s tongue to spill salt-bitter pleasure into the other’s throat. Himuro’s fingers clutch at Murasakibara’s thigh, his throat works, his thoughts haze; and finally Murasakibara sighs a long exhale, and pulls Himuro up to slide his cock free of the other’s throat. Himuro comes up coughing, wheezing for air while his tongue is still slick with the taste of Murasakibara’s come, and in front of him Murasakibara lets his hands fall back to his lap and heaves a sigh.

“Shut the door, Muro-chin,” he says, leaning against the wall as he pulls his pants back up one-handed over the softening weight of his spent cock. “The sun’s too bright.”

It’s a minute before Himuro can obey. His throat is raw from Murasakibara’s use, his lungs desperate for the air his coughing won’t let him get; for the first span all he can do is kneel on the tiled floor and gasp for air between fits of coughing. But he does find his breath eventually, and his ability to think follows soon thereafter, and it’s no more than the effort of rocking back to sit instead of kneel at the floor before he’s reaching to push the door shut at last. The entryway drops into shadow, the dim blinding after the profusion of sunlight, and for a moment Himuro is sightless, stripped of his vision by the abrupt cessation of light. He shifts to turn, blinking in an effort to bring his gaze back to clarity, and fingers close around his wrist, an over-large hand tightening to a cuff around his arm before pulling to slide him across the tile. Himuro throws a hand out to catch himself from falling, landing somewhere against the raised floor of the hallway, but the pull at his wrist is followed by an arm around his shoulders to topple him in against the solid warmth of Murasakibara’s chest. Himuro’s cheek presses to the soft of Murasakibara’s shirtfront, the arm around his shoulders flexes to steady against him to brace him still, and when Murasakibara sighs over Himuro’s head it sounds deep and dark and slow with satisfaction. Himuro blinks into the shadows around them; and then he lifts his hand from between their bodies, and curls his fingers into Murasakibara’s shirt, and shuts his eyes to relax against the support of the other’s chest instead of watching the familiarity of the hallway take shape in his slow-adjusting vision.


End file.
